


Traffic on Crown Street

by 743ish, alby_mangroves



Series: A Home Game [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1950s, Ableist Language, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Art, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Cap Steve/Vintage Bucky, Disabled Character, First Time, Illustrated, M/M, Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, PostWar, Secret Relationship, Sex, Technically not Shrunkyclunks, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, both survive wwii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 01:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18458429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/743ish/pseuds/743ish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: They reach for each other at the same time.





	Traffic on Crown Street

Steve goes to D.C. again. He sits through briefings at the State Department and the DoD. Important stuff: Berlin, Korea. The Brownell Report came out six weeks ago—President Truman’s investigation into the intelligence agencies—and everyone’s panicking, because now Truman’s planning a shakeup.

They want Steve to go to a lunch with some European diplomats and their wives, so he does. They want him to talk up the ceasefire negotiations in Korea, so he does. But he barely hears a thing anyone says to him for the whole week.

He kissed Bucky. They kissed. Steve can still feel it, the taste, the body rush.

He meets with politicians in their fancy offices, and their secretaries bring him either coffee or whiskey, depending on what kind of man their boss is. The men talk at him, on and on, and they all say the same things: security this, intelligence that. _Judicious use of our assets_ , by which they mean Steve. He keeps his back straight and nods at the right times. He never lets the assholes see him roll his eyes.

On the third day, a Congressman is running late, and Steve has to spend ten minutes alone with his thoughts while he waits in a deep leather armchair. There are rows of phone directories in a huge bookcase opposite the door; Steve spots Brooklyn, New York on the second shelf, and stands to pull it down. He thumbs through it and finds the name, there, page 79, and his heart thumps stupidly: _Barnes, Jas. B., 566 Crown St_. That’s him.

There are more meetings, then the train station, the lunch car, trees flying past the window. He should have more than a coffee. He should read the packet from the Secretary of Defense. It isn’t long. It’s definitely important. He could get through it before they reach Penn Station.

But—they _kissed_. He looks at the New Jersey sky and remembers it, over and over. That rush again, like a roller coaster just before the drop.

When he’s finally back in Brooklyn, he calls. He’s memorized the number, but he checks his own phonebook anyway, to make sure, and to see the name again.

There’s no answer the first time, so Steve eats an early dinner, staring out across the treetops of Prospect Park. It’s hot, and the sky is hazy, the leaves heavy and still. Sunlight glares off the roofs of the cars that crawl by, five storeys below.

He cleans up his dishes slowly, to pass the time. When he calls again, Bucky picks up on the fourth ring.

===

The clock in the office hasn’t even hit four-thirty when Walter raps on the shop window to tell Bucky they’re done. Bucky doesn’t care; he’s not strict about hours, as long as the work gets done. And today the whole shop is like an oven, and he’s been balancing the books in the office since three. He blows out a tired sigh and throws down his pen. He can’t concentrate anymore. It's been a long, hot goddamn week.

He makes his way to the front door to give the boys the go-ahead. It’s dim here inside, but the darkness does nothing to cool the place down. The shop stinks even more than usual, oil and metal and sweat.

He passes the cleared-out spot to one side that’s being used to store Rogers’ Harley. They’ve covered it with a canvas drop cloth to keep it clean until Rogers comes back for it; he’s out of town until next week. The guys still can’t believe Captain America is patronizing their place of work. Bucky can’t quite believe it himself, most of the time.

He pops his head out the door. Carl and Walter are milling by the street, coveralls tied at the waist. They’ve already lit their cigarettes. Bucky doesn’t bother going out, just shouts goodbye and waves them off from the door.

“You still coming for dinner on Sunday?” Walter calls.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “See you at six?” Walter has Bucky over to eat with his family once or twice a month. It’s nice, and they always have extra for him to take home. Bucky doesn’t even care that they’re doing it out of pity. Irene makes the best chicken pot pie he’s ever had.

Walter nods and waves, and Carl waves, and Bucky retreats back into the shop. He’s gotta get cleaned up, but then he thinks he'll head home early, too.

He has big plans for tonight: drink two beers in front of the fan and eat cold leftovers for dinner. Have a cool shower, then turn on the radio in the bedroom and lie down on top of the covers and not move all night. It’s not so bad, having the house all to himself.

He bought the place when his dad died in ‘47. It isn't anything much. Old and getting worn-down, maybe, but there’s a solid foundation, and it has a little back yard with a garage in the corner. It’s one of the last detached places left on the block, and it's entirely his. He’d always planned to take on a tenant in the spare bedroom, for some company and a little extra cash, but he just never ended up finding anyone. The room still sits empty.

He locks up the shop and heads out. On the street, the sun is punishing. Even in the shade there’s no respite; it feels like the air is on fire. Days like this he usually takes the car to work, but lately he doesn’t mind the long walk home. He’s not in any hurry. For the first time in a long time, there’s something big on his mind, and walking alone affords him some space to think about it. To remember: Steve’s eyes on him. Steve’s hands on his face, his body close. Bucky’s never been a daydreamer, but it’s been eight days, and that memory still hits him at funny times. It still makes him blink and inhale and hide a smile.

He burns to tell someone. His ma would love to meet Steve. She’d adore him, even if he weren't a household name, Bucky knows she would. And Becca—Becca would pass the hell _out_. It’s really a shame they won’t ever know. Steve would probably get a kick out of meeting them, too. He doesn't have his own family.

Bucky realizes where his thoughts are going and snaps himself out of it. He needs to pull his head out of his ass with this. It's funny—he'd been so sure of it, with Steve, that afternoon in the kitchen. But as the days have passed, he sees it clearer: there's no way this is gonna stick. Steve's a good guy, but his picture's in the paper every other day. He has a career to worry about. Eventually he’ll realize it isn’t worth the risk.

It's just—Bucky can't stop wanting it. It scares him, how much.

When he gets to the house, he can hear from the porch that the phone is ringing.

===

Steve doesn't bother with pretext this time. He simply asks to see him, and Bucky tells him when—early evening, the next day.

He avoids the subway in favor of walking. The thought of being recognized today makes his stomach turn, and it’ll be easier to avoid if he’s just a passing figure on the street. He keeps his head down, hands in pockets, no eye contact. Jesus Christ, he's so wound up. He's sure anyone would be able to read him the second they looked.

When he gets to the house he considers going around the back, but out of courtesy he climbs the steps and knocks on the front door. It makes him feel utterly exposed, standing on Bucky's doorstep in broad daylight. He frowns and straightens his shoulders, raises his chin. He's not doing anything wrong. Friends visit each other's homes all the time. There's no one around, anyway, nobody looking. But his palms sweat.

And he should have brought something. What do people bring, to visit friends?

The door opens and it's him: that face, those eyes.

“Hi,” Steve says, and Bucky says, “You made it,” at the same time.

The sight of him almost hurts. He was in coveralls and boots last time Steve saw him, and he smelled like engine oil. Now he's in a fresh white shirt, one short sleeve turned up above a smooth bicep, the other empty. His hair is combed, his jaw recently shaven.

He opens the door wider and steps back to let Steve in.

It’s a little hallway with an oak staircase to one side. There's music coming from the living room—a trumpet, high and fast, tripping over the beat. Steve doesn't know jazz, really, but this sound makes perfect sense to him in the context of this house. Brash, upbeat, the kind of thing you nod your head to with a grin on your face. And then Bucky turns that grin on Steve in the hallway and Steve's pulse does a flourish in time with the snare drum.

They stand for a second, just inside the door. Steve is breathless, frozen: for all he’s wanted to say to Bucky, all he’s thought about doing, now that he’s here it evaporates. He can only look.

Bucky says, “Take your jacket?”

It’s too hot for a jacket but Steve’s wearing one anyway. He was going to wear a tie, but figured it might be too much. He shrugs off the jacket and hands it to Bucky and can’t stop watching him while he moves, stepping carefully around Steve to hang the jacket on a hook by the door, avoiding his eyes, nice and casual.

The song from the living room ends, and the place is quiet. A car shushes by outside. Steve wrings his fingers.

Bucky moves back down the hall a little and faces him. He scratches his neck and for a second he looks uncertain, glancing away and then back, and—God. That half-smile. Steve is done for.

“I got your bike ready,” Bucky says. “Running nice and smooth.”

“Oh,” says Steve, “thanks. Guess I’ll come by for it on Monday.”

“You need it earlier, just let me know. I don’t mind going in on the weekend.”

Steve smiles. “Thank you.”

Bucky motions toward the living room. “You want a beer?”

Steve should say yes. They should talk, they should—visit, something, he doesn't know the rules. He wants to do this right. But—

“No,” he says.

It makes Bucky stop, eyebrows raised. “Okay,” he says slowly. He puts his palm flat on the end of the banister and leans on it. A polygon of sunlight from a high window falls across his chest, making the white of his shirt glow bright. He looks into Steve's eyes. “What do you want?”

Steve comes close to erupting, the way he does in battle: outsize muscles ready to unleash all their force, the hyperfocus kicking in. He hates it. He feels brutal, desperate, like he’d smash through a wall to get to him, and he doesn't want to subject Bucky to that, being pursued by this great hulking body that can barely contain its need. So he makes himself breathe, in and out, and goes to him slowly, a couple of strides down the hall, and when he's almost there, Bucky steps forward to meet him.

They reach for each other at the same time. It's nearly a lunge; Steve grips the front of Bucky’s shirt with one hand and his collar with the other, and Bucky hooks his arm around Steve’s neck and drags him close. It’s almost like they’re gonna fight, though Steve doesn’t mean it to feel that way—they’re both moving too fast and holding too tight, and they have to adjust their footing to stay balanced—but he's got him, and that's all Steve wanted, after all. To have him close again.

They stand like that for a long moment. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky and exhales, slow and deliberate. The rush in his belly and the surge in his chest, the frantic feeling he’s had for days—all of that quiets a little. He’s finally here, Bucky’s got him, and standing in the hall with the shaft of sunlight cutting slantways across them, Steve’s relieved to find that there's actually no hurry at all.

They kiss. And when it's gentle—no unbridled passion, just warmth, depth, taste—it's a further relief. Steve lets his fingers relax on Bucky's back. They’re about the same height, and when one kiss ends they can stay right there, together, sharing breath, until the next.

Bucky tastes like mint, and he smells like hair cream. Steve has to pull back to look at his face. Damn, he’s beautiful; Steve loves to see him, his warm eyes and his fresh-shaven skin and the way he smiles, must be fifty different ways he smiles. Bucky lets him look, for a second, and then he tugs Steve forward to kiss him again.

He shifts his stance, pushing closer, and slow-dances them backward until Steve's shoulders connect with the wall. He presses his long body against Steve’s, leaning into him—Steve can feel him and he’s hard, as hard as Steve is. They kiss again, deeper, hands bunching in cotton and their breaths getting louder. Steve wants him, he wants him so bad, and he’s finally got him close but now it’s not enough. The urgency from before returns, not so jagged, but still rolling huge and relentless under his skin.

They fumble at each other’s clothes, whatever they can reach. Bucky drops his hand to work on Steve’s fly. Steve takes a moment to let him— _fuck_ —and when Bucky's shoved his pants open Steve grasps his chin and looks in his eyes.

“I can’t,” he pants, “ _think_ ,” and he yanks Bucky’s belt out of his trousers for emphasis, “about anything except you.”

He drops the belt on the floor. Bucky smiles, a whole one this time, and Steve kisses him as deep as he can and sticks his hand in his shorts.

He’s never touched a man like this but it’s easy, Bucky’s sounds and Steve’s own gut tell him what to do. The desperation flares; his body pounds with it. Every touch makes it expand, every shift of Bucky’s frame, the drag of his fingers and the taste of his skin, his breath in Steve’s ear. Steve’s dick throbs in Bucky's hand and he can barely hang on to himself but it’s good, it’s so good, and they chase it together, letting it build. Bucky tips his face into Steve’s neck and Steve throws his arm over Bucky’s back to keep him there. The need inside him swells, impossibly vast—he can't keep his rhythm—he can't do anything, can barely stand. He has to grab around Bucky’s shoulders with both hands to anchor himself, and he squeezes Bucky’s body and thrusts hard into Bucky’s fist. He’s shaking, so close, and then Bucky bites his earlobe, and everything surges and crests and Steve stops breathing and lets himself fall apart.

===

For a minute, Bucky is sure that that’s it. That Steve got what he wanted, and now he’ll just do up his fly and leave. It’s a pretty fair assumption; Bucky may not have done this in years, but he still remembers how it goes. He shouldn’t expect anything more than that.

He takes half a step away from Steve, and wants him back as soon as he does it. His hand is a mess. There's a big stripe of come up his shirt, too, so he wipes his hand as best he can on the front of it and starts to undo the buttons.

Steve is still breathing hard, his head tipped back against the wall. Bucky braces himself for what might come next: an awkward silence as they straighten their clothes, Steve clearing his throat and mumbling an excuse. Bucky will be fine, if that’s what Steve wants. He works his jaw while Steve pants at the ceiling, and waits for it. Maybe it’s for the best.

But then Steve groans, “Come here,” and drags Bucky back to kiss him, deep and sloppy, and so, so easy. God, Steve makes it easy. When he looks at Bucky the way he does—when he comes on strong and brazen and his eyes get serious, and he touches Bucky like he’s precious, like he’s _necessary_ —fuck. He makes Bucky think dangerous shit. Like maybe this is real, maybe they can have it. Bucky’s pants are falling down and his shirt is half off and maybe he’s being stupid, but Jesus Christ, he’d do anything for it to be true.

He’s still so fired up, still hard, aching with it. There’s no way to conceal it, and after a moment, Steve pulls back and looks at him. His chest is still heaving, and his face is red. He stares at Bucky for a moment, wide-eyed.

The next kiss is purposeful. Steve clutches him tight around the back with one big hand, and with the other he palms his dick again. Bucky makes a broken sound when he does, and not on purpose; it’s been so long, so _fucking_ long without this. And God, it hardly takes any time, not with Steve holding him in place and working him fast, and Bucky so hungry for it he could cry. Steve leaves off the kiss to to press his open mouth to Bucky’s throat, breath hot against his jaw, and he's so much, it's all so much--Bucky tenses and chokes out, “oh, _fuck_ ,” squeezes his eyes shut, and comes, right in Steve’s hand.

When he opens his eyes, Steve is watching him. He keeps his one arm around Bucky's back, and they stay close like that while Bucky's pulse returns to normal.

The cars go by outside.

Eventually, they separate, slowly disentangling themselves. And it is awkward, a little, but only as much as it ever is; there's a mess to deal with. Steve grimaces as he takes his hand away from Bucky’s crotch, so Bucky gets his shirt all the way off and hands it to him wordlessly.

Steve takes it, and his eyes dart over to Bucky's bad side: the shoulder stump is out on show. Bucky’s heart kicks up again and he stills, letting him look.

Steve appraises the shoulder for a second, cleaning his hand, his face serious. His eyes flick back to Bucky’s; his hair is sticking up all over, and there’s sweat on his temples. He smiles lopsidedly. “How about that beer?”

It makes Bucky laugh, makes him feel a little lighter. “Sure,” he says. “Just let me go change.”

He points Steve toward the bathroom, and goes upstairs to get a new shirt.

He changes and washes his hand and combs his hair. He comes back downstairs and heads into the kitchen to get out a couple of beers. After a minute or two, Steve comes in tentatively. He catches Bucky's eye and smiles, sheepish.

Bucky snorts. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

He passes Steve a beer and takes a pull from his own. They stand and drink silently for a minute.

God, this is all backwards. He didn’t exactly plan it to go like this. He didn’t plan it at all, really, so keyed up at the thought of seeing him again he could barely think. He’d figured, vaguely, hopefully, that they’d have a couple of drinks first, and then if he was lucky they might head upstairs. It never occurred to him they’d pick up exactly where they left off, immediately, right there in the front hall. Jesus Christ.

It’s nearing dinner time. He shrugs a little helplessly. “Um. You want a sandwich? I got some roast beef.”

Steve nods, a little brighter—relieved, maybe. “That sounds good. Thanks.”

So Bucky makes them fuckin’ roast beef sandwiches. He slaps four slices of bread on the board and opens the mustard, using his palm and three fingers to hold the jar still while his thumb and forefinger work the lid off. Steve sits at the table and watches quietly. He doesn't try to help; Bucky likes that.

He wipes mustard onto the bread and says, “You have a good trip?”

There’s a pause. “Yeah.”

Even with his back to him, Bucky can feel his resignation. He huffs and glances back. “You sure about that?”

“It was fine,” Steve says, and shrugs, “you know, it was important, it was…” Bucky pauses and turns to give him a look that says _bullshit_ , and Steve laughs softly. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty dull.”

“What do you do down there, exactly?” He tosses the sliced beef on top of the mustard.

Steve sighs. “Meetings.”

“With who?”

“Whoever.” Bucky finishes stacking the sandwich, and turns in time to see Steve grimace and slump back into the chair. “They schedule me with everyone. I’m still attached to the military, though.”

“You’re commissioned?” Bucky says.

Steve shakes his head. “I was Special Services, originally. The war bonds stuff.” He nods his thanks as Bucky sets a sandwich on the table. “I wasn’t supposed to see combat. But when I started getting into combat anyway, they gave me a battlefield commission.”

“I guess so,” Bucky says. “You didn’t give them much of a choice.”

Steve grins a little ruefully, and Bucky remembers him then: leading them all out of the Hydra factory, his jaw set, tall and commanding. Bucky didn’t have the faintest notion who he was, that day. He was simply a miracle, to all of them. They’d have followed him anywhere, and when they found out he’d gone against orders to get them, it just made them love him more. Bucky went into the hospital as soon as they got back to the base, so he only ever saw Captain America for that one day. He knew even then that he’d never forget it.

“After the war,” Steve says, and his smile disappears, “they said it was better if I went back to Special Services.” He twists his mouth. “And they gave me some classified designations. Gives them more flexibility with what I can do.”

“And what is that?”

He takes his first bite of sandwich. “My position is largely ad hoc. I do intelligence stuff, some combat when they need it. And there’s a lot of publicity, the USO, whatever they need.”

“Wheaties boxes.”

Steve huffs. “Yeah, and those.” His voice is flat.

Bucky nods and leans back against the counter, and they eat silently for a while. Steve chews slowly, frowning at the table. His shoulders have tensed and he’s bouncing his knee. Bucky feels like an asshole for bringing any of it up.

“You meet the President?” he asks.

Steve swallows. “Yeah, I’ve met him.”

“No—Jesus, I know you _have_ met him—they put it on the cover of Life magazine about ten times—”

And, there: Steve’s eyes crinkle. “Well, we’re very close.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “This week, Rogers. In D.C. Did you talk to him?”

“Not this time, no.”

“What about Eisenhower?”

“Didn’t see him either.”

“But you’ve met him.”

“Yeah. He’s a huge prick.”

Bucky chokes on his beer.

Steve keeps his face deadpan and leans back in his chair. “Truman too.”

“I gotta say,” Bucky says, between coughs, “I get the feeling there’s a story behind that opinion.”

Steve nods once, cocky. “Yup.”

“You gonna tell me?”

“Maybe sometime,” Steve says. “Today I’m trying to make a good impression.”

He’s stretched out, massive shoulders and big legs on display. He’s relaxed and teasing and fighting a smile, and suddenly Bucky wants to thump him. _What the hell are you doing here,_ he thinks wildly, _are you stupid?_ This can't happen. Captain America can't be queer and Steve Rogers can't want a crippled man and there’s no way, _no way_ for it to work—

But Steve’s real, and beautiful, sitting in one of Bucky’s beat-up kitchen chairs like he belongs there, and after a second Bucky gives in to it. He shakes his head.

“Fuck, you’re so good-lookin’,” he says, low.

He’s not teasing, and Steve doesn’t blush. He just sits still and holds Bucky’s eyes. And Bucky sees it, finally: Steve is not scared of this. Not even a little. He just watches him steadily, watches Bucky cross the floor to stand by the table, and when Bucky leans down to him Steve stands hurriedly, and they kiss, Steve halfway out of his chair and Bucky leaning over him. It's off-balance, too fast again, but it doesn’t matter; they figure it out.

It’s like before, like the other times; like an earthquake. Far too big a thing to be happening on a regular Saturday in Bucky’s kitchen. It seems like there should be something more—a spontaneous choir, anything—to mark the occasion. But there’s nothing. Just the kitchen, the little net curtain over the window, and the slow, infrequent traffic sounds of Crown Street on a summer evening. The drone of an airplane. Birdsong, if you listen.

And—their breaths. Hands, sliding hot, rustling the fabric, and every sound, every movement is seismic, the Earth shaken to its core. Bucky’s life, crumbled at Captain America’s feet.

But the house, the street, the city—the outside world all unmoved by it, like nothing’s happening. As if tomorrow would be a day like any other, as if anything could ever go on the same way after this.

It’s a bad idea. Maybe Steve isn’t scared, but Bucky’s looked down this road, and it doesn't lead anywhere good. He really, definitely knows better.

He also knows it's too late. He feels it deep down, in his blood and his bones, and he understands what it is. He won’t ever be rid of it, he knows that too. It's a sure bet that this is gonna hurt.

But God help him, he doesn’t care. When it ends, and it will, it'll only ever be Steve who ends it. Until then, Bucky will take what he can of him.

===

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [Alby_Mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alby_Mangroves/pseuds/Alby_Mangroves) for the gorgeous illustration in this installment. You are wildly brilliant, and this PICTURE!!!! makes me CRY. Thank you.
> 
> This was beta read by the amazing and very patient [Dreadnought](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadnought/pseuds/Dreadnought), whose support and discussion and thoughtful editing improves my writing hugely. Thank you so much.
> 
> Friends. THIS TOOK SO LONG. I’m so sorry. There will be more to come in the series, and I’m hopeful it won’t take an entire, actual year to get the next part done. Thank you for reading.
> 
> I am on [twitter](https://twitter.com/743ish).  
>  
> 
> Historical/cultural notes:
> 
> DoD: United States Department of Defense 
> 
> The Brownell Report: the result of a committee investigation into the United States’ various postwar intelligence agencies. Its recommendations led to the formation of the National Security Agency in late 1952; this was not made public at the time and the NSA remained a secret agency for years.
> 
> President Truman: Harry S. Truman, US President 1945-1953
> 
> Special Services: WWII-era unit of the US Military that enlisted performers for the purposes of maintaining morale.
> 
> USO: United Service Organizations: a non-profit that was founded during WWII to provide entertainment, welfare and recreation programs for troops
> 
> Wheaties: an American breakfast cereal that routinely features famous athletes on its packaging. Its tagline is “The Breakfast of Champions.”
> 
> Eisenhower: at the time of this chapter (Summer 1952), Dwight D. Eisenhower was the Republican Party’s nominee for US President in the upcoming general election.


End file.
